


Lacrimosa

by regancy



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: F/M, Forced Marriage, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 04:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15163118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regancy/pseuds/regancy
Summary: With the turn of a brass scorpion, Christine seals her fate.





	Lacrimosa

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am starting a new multichapter less than a week after posting one. I'm still on the fence about this one but I hope I'll see it through.

Four people make their way out of the cellars: Erik at the front followed by Christine and Raoul, side by side and the Persian trailing behind them. The air is tense with unspoken words, but the only sounds are those of the lake lapping against the shores and the light tread of footsteps. Beside her, Raoul is so weak he has a hand against the walls to keep himself upright, and the Persian doesn’t seem to be faring much better. 

Her foot slips on a wet patch of earth and would have sent her feet first into the lake had Raoul not shot out and wrapped an arm around her waist. She holds on to him a moment longer than necessary before she feels Erik’s head whip around and fix his glowing gaze on her. She self-consciously peels herself from Raoul’s hold, giving him what she hopes is a sympathetic look. 

The walk is much slower than it should be and the two men are barely strong enough to stand, much less make a journey, but Erik refused to allow the men any time to recuperate before taking them above ground. 

*

“I have made my choice, Erik” she had said, voice trembling “I have chosen to be your bride.” He was wearing his mask again, but she suspected he was smiling behind it. It terrified her. 

“And you shall be the most beautiful bride in Paris.” He says.

He opened the door and the two men stumble out, disoriented and barely conscious. He settled into arm chair while she rushed to the others, supporting both their combined weight to lay them somewhere. She finally managed to rest Raoul on one of the chaises with the Persian into a larger arm chair and ran back and forth between the two men hauling glasses of water and wet cloths, while Erik silently watched. Christine had been wiping Raoul’s forehead when he took her wrist in his hand, his grip wasn’t strong but she didn’t pull away. She turned away before their eyes could meet.

When the men had regained full consciousness, Erik stood abruptly and said “We must leave. Now.”

“We can’t. Can’t they stay the night? They still need to recover." She tried to say, but he silenced her with a raised hand. 

“They have recovered enough. We leave now.” He says, already with a glove-clad hand raising Raoul to his feet.

*

The boat isn’t made for so many people and she’s pressed so close to Raoul she can feel the radiating heat of his body. She feels his hand slip into hers, sweaty but not unpleasant, and give it a quick squeeze. Erik is humming to himself, a song she doesn’t know, it’s slow and somber like a funeral march which is oddly fitting. Erik rows them over the lake, and she can feel his gazed fixed on her the entire boat ride. 

They end up going through the mirror in her dressing room. Which looks exactly as it did when she had left to perform. It’s only been a few hours, and there’s no reason to expect to for it to change but after everything that’s happened in this night it feels strange to see her hairbrush sitting exactly where she left it so many hours ago. The rest of the theater is empty and dark and Christine realizes how large the Palais Garnier is as the group passes past what must be hundreds of empty seats and she admires the cavernous ceilings above her before finally making it through the main entrance and into the night. 

Beyond them the sky is a rich velvety sort of darkness which makes the stars and the moon seem to shine brighter. It’s so beautiful it almost take her mind away from her current situation. Almost. She’s still painfully aware of Erik’s presence, just steps behind her now. He’s always been able to do that: command a presence in any space even when being completely silent.  
She looks at Raoul who is deliberately not looking at her before clearing her throat and turning to Erik. “May we be alone for a moment, please?” Christine asks.

“I advise you be brief. You are an engaged woman now, inappropriate speech could prove most dangerous.” he delivers the final word in a way that makes her shudder. But he walks away with the Persian, just out of earshot but close enough to have a full view of her. 

There aren’t many carriages this late at night-or is it early morning? So they stand side by side. Raoul rubs at his mouth in a nervous gesture before turning to her. 

“I’m sorry.” He finally says, not looking at her but rather across the street at a small boarded-up shop that was once a café. “You should not have to do this.”

“You did nothing wrong. It was my choice to make.” 

“Christine, you must understand this isn’t how it was supposed to go.”

She chuckles quietly “M. de Changy, you of all people should know that things hardly turn out as they’re meant to.” 

He says nothing after that, only nods and the night is reduced to only the faint sounds of crickets chirping and the muffled conversation of Erik and the Persian. The silence is oddly comforting, and Christine uses the time to bask in his presence, despite her urge to wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his coat, she makes sure to keep a considerable amount of distance between them. After could not have been more than ten minutes an early carriage slowly makes it way down the road, it reaches them much faster than she feels it should. Raoul exchanges a few words with the driver and climbs into the brougham. 

“I will return for you. Soon.” he says, taking her hands in his through the opened carriage door. 

“I know you will.” she manages to say before the door is closed. The carriages trots away into the distance, and Christine’s eyes don’t leave it until it’s out of sight. The wind whips through her hair as she sends up a quick prayer for strength before facing Erik again.

She wraps her arms around herself to warm her body from the sudden chill. She then turns her attention across the pavilion where Erik is still conversing with the Persian, now entering his own carriage, but she can’t catch a word they’re saying. The carriage drives away with an angry looking Persian staring at Erik though the window. 

Then there is only Christine, standing alone in the silvery moonlight. She is only able to appreciate the night for a few minutes before a leather clad hand wraps around her wrist. Erik pulls her behind him, not even looking behind him to see her struggling not to trip over her skirts. He’s muttering something that she’s sure isn’t meant for her as they descend to his underground home through a path she doesn’t recognize and before she knows it they’re at the lake. 

In one smooth motion, Erik guides her into the boat and steps in behind her. Beneath them the black water churns and splashes against the little boat, so much so it feels like it’s threatening to pull it under the waves. She never noticed how beautiful the sounds of the cellars are and for only a moment Christine allows the soft lapping of the water, the rhythmic slap of the paddle, and Erik’s dulcet voice to lull her away from her mind. She supposes she’ll have to get used to this. A sick amusement comes from that last thought and a giggle escapes her before she can stop it. If Erik hears her, he pays her no mind but keeps rowing the boat and singing to himself. 

The ground of the lakeshore brings her back to her surroundings. The feeling of sand beneath her feet draws her out of her world of thought and back into the present. The fatigue of the last few hours suddenly rushes into her bones and she only wants to shed herself of her dress and fall asleep. Erik steps off the boat and offers his arm to her, she dares not decline and allows him to guide her into his home. 

Hades shows Persephone into the underworld, she thinks. 

Christine has never liked the smell of Erik’s-their- home. It smells of compressed flowers, cloying and artificial and in that moment the smell seems everywhere, closing in around her and threatening to choke her. He guides her though his the drawing room and finally stops her in front of the Louis-Phillipe room. Erik takes her hand into his, lifts it to his eye level and runs a gloved thumb over her knuckles. 

“Tomorrow, Christine.” he whispers against her skin as she tries not to push him away. He releases her hand after a long moment and, with a stiff, formal bow, he disappears into his bedroom. She runs behind into the bedroom, leans against the door pressing a hand to her chest. 

Across the room, the bronze sculptures are leering at her from on her mantle, glinting slightly in the low candlelight. The scorpion is still tilted in its place as if it’s mocking her choice. 

She’s desperately fatigued but as inviting as the bed looks in that moment, sleep is just about the last thing on her mind. Instead, she settles at the bench of her vanity, the three mirrors each showing a different view of the same face. Somewhere along the course of the night her hair had become unbound and hands over her shoulders in loose waves and her stage makeup is somehow mostly intact. With shaking hands she reaches into a bottom drawer of the desk to slowly wipe the rest of the cosmetics. The cloth is stained with streaks of black and red when she finally managed to get most of it off and she picks up the comb to try to tame her wild curls. 

She nearly starts when she catches sight of herself in the mirror, without the makeup on her face looks pale and bloodless which only emphasis the size of the dark circles beneath her eyes. She stares at herself in the middle mirror, not breaking eye contact until she doesn’t recognize the woman staring back at her through the mirrors. Christine tilts her head upwards, the woman does the same. Christine waves at the mirror, the woman in the mirror waves back at Christine. The, slightly concerning, urge to stare into the mirror for the rest of the night is the only thing that manages to get her off the vanity and into the bathroom. 

She stumbles through a mockery of her nighty routine in the bathroom, splashing water on her face and trying to scrub off the remnants of the makeup. Getting undressed by herself is difficult, but the alternative is asking Erik for help, so she struggles to get her clothes off. The skirt is caked in mud and half soaked, it likely won’t be worn again but she lays it carefully over the chair anyways. Finally, she changes into a nightgown that’s waiting for her-along with several day dresses-in the closet. It looks almost exactly like her real nightgown (she chooses to think this is a coincidence.).

Like she does every night, she passes around the room and gently blows out each of the candles Erik had left burning all night inside. When it’s completely dark in the room with the air carrying the light scent melted wax she can pretend she’s in her own home. She kneels at the foot of bed and prays before climbing into the unfamiliar bed. 

Unsurprisingly, sleep doesn’t come, she tosses and turns to try and find a more comfortable position before abandoning the idea of rest completely. Instead, she stares at the ceiling in the darkness, trying to fall asleep and hearing Erik’s muffled piano through the thin walls. She hates the way she finds herself singing along quietly to the music. She pulls the pillow on either side of her head to drown out the music before settling more into the comforter until only her eyes are visible in the monstrous mound of fabric.

She closes her eyes and falls into dark, dreamless slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you a bunch for reading!  
> And please give feedback, it means so much.


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